


my empty space is for you

by Anonymous



Category: NINE PERCENT (Band), 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Divergence?, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Super Idol but it appears for a second, a lot of it, but it gets better, will update tags are more happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Find your soulmate will be one of the happiest moments of your life."ORCai Xukun's story told in three parts.Part 1: In which Cai Xukun learns what a soulmate is and tries to find hisPart 2: In which Cai Xukun grows a little older and a little more jaded, and deals with the consequences of giving up on one dream to pursue anotherPart 3: In which Cai Xukun gets his happily ever after?Prompt #202 soulmates! au where you feel the same pain your soulmate is feeling. a is used to the sudden physical pain - his soulmate could be really clumsy. but now there's this pain in his chest. he doesn't know what it is.
Kudos: 3
Collections: Cloud 9 Fic Fest





	my empty space is for you

**Author's Note:**

> In which Cai Xukun learns what a soulmate is and tries to find his.

During the sweltering summers in Zhejiang—when opening all the doors and windows wasn’t enough to combat the stifling heat—Xukun spent his days outdoors. By then, school had let out, and he couldn’t think of anything better to do than to head down the block to the park to play several rounds of basketball with whoever was there. The basketball court was an ugly little thing, —that is if it could even be called one—a small stretch of packed dirt with a single ratty hoop where the plastic ring melted slightly from the heat and was missing the net. And, if it rained the night before—which was quite often—the large puddles of mud left behind made the ground extra slippery.

Still, it did not take away from the bright laughter, the warmth of the sun, and the refreshing breeze against his sweaty skin that Xukun learned to associate with his fond memories of summers.

Of course, it should be expected that during competitive games of basketball, there were bound to be accidental injuries from sharp elbows and ill-placed feet. When that happened, the injured person would spring up once again and brushed it off, eager to resume the game—as if it didn’t hurt. And it didn’t; not when they were at the age where a simple bandage—hastily slapped over their wounds, pain already forgotten—could solve all their problems.

As such, Cai Xukun was no stranger to pain.

So, on that particular day, Xukun didn’t think much of it when he felt the stinging pain of skinned knees when he limped home—despite having no memory of tripping at all.

“Did you get hurt?” His grandmother asked, looking up from her book, when Xukun walked in through the door.

“Yea,” Xukun said, carefully balancing himself on top of a chair to reach the cabinet where the bandages were kept, “it doesn’t really hurt though.”

He grabbed the box and climbed down from the chair, taking a seat on it as he rolled up the bottom of his pants to expose his knees. When a pale expense of unblemished skin came into sight, Xukun stared at it in puzzlement. “Huh,” he said aloud, “I’m sure I did skin my knees though.”

His grandmother set down her book and made her way to Xukun. She moved his hands and bought her face close to his knee, inspecting it carefully under the dim lighting. But, like Xukun, she did not find any sign of injury.

“Then it must be from your soulmate,” she declared after a while and patted his knee, “you should be happy.”

“Soulmate?” Xukun asked, testing out the unfamiliar word.

His grandmother’s eyes drifted off to the corner of the room where a portrait of his grandfather hung on the wall. “Finding your soulmate will be one of the happiest moments of your life,” she said, but her eyes were distant and slightly misty.

That night, his grandmother made all his favorite dishes. _In celebration_ , she had said. Xukun didn’t quite understand what a soulmate was, but as he bit into a piece of pork belly, he decided he quite liked this so-called soulmate.

Xukun leaned back against his seat and stretched out his legs, letting out a groan at the satisfying stretch to his muscles that alleviated some of the phantom tension. He pressed the back of his head against the wall and stared up at the white ceiling, the hard plastic of the bench digging painfully against his skin. 

The nauseating combination of the distinctive sterile scent of disinfectant; the acidic tang of antiseptic; and a strange ironlike sweetness drifted up his nose, and Xukun tried his best to not gag. To distract himself, he began counting the white rectangles that made up the ceiling—horizontally first, then vertically.

As he counted, his mind began to drift off. It had been a couple months—going on half a year—since these phantom pains became a constant. Before, there were random bursts of sharp, sudden pain throughout the day; perhaps his soulmate banged their hand against a hard object or tripped and banged their knee against the ground. However, this pain was different—it _lingered_ for days in the form of tense muscles and painful aches in places Xukun didn’t know could _ache_. 

And, not for the first time, Xukun wondered who his soulmate was. What could they possibly be doing that made them constantly sore? Maybe they did some sort of sport? Maybe a dancer? 

Xukun bit his lips as a wave of guilt rushed over him. He was doing it again, selfishly thinking of only himself when—

The clicking of heels echoing against the linoleum hallway snapped Xukun out of his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw red bottomed heels heading in his direction before stopping in front of him. The woman removed her sunglasses and looked at him, and Xukun wordlessly stared back. She was beautiful—not in the same way as those gorgeous faces that adore the front covers of magazines, but she possessed a cold beauty that made people want to admire her from afar, too afraid to get close. 

“Well?” she asked, lifted a perfectly drawn brow and glanced at the door that Xukun was sitting outside of. 

“She…” Xukun’s voice came out slightly hoarse from disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “The doctor said that Grandma’s condition is stabilized now.”

The woman nodded and with a turn of her heels, pushed open the door and entered the room. Xukun awkwardly trailed behind her, fidgeting with his fingers. 

The nurse in the room looked up at the sound of the door opening. The woman purposefully made her way over to the nurse in sure, steady strides and they began conversing in hushed tones close to the door.

Xukun slipped past them and sat down on the chair next to the bed. He stared at his grandmother laying still, on top of white sheets on the big, white hospital bed. A silver metal pole stood next to the bed where a plastic bag hung, where clear liquid flowed down through a clear tube connected to her unmoving arm. 

He heard snatches of the conversation between his mother and the nurse behind him “…she’s getting old…it’s best to…wasn’t left alone…”

Xukun reached out and slipped his hand into his grandmother’s unmoving one, threading his fingers through hers. He didn’t realize how thin and frail she had become. 

If his grandmother were awake right now, Xukun thought, she would probably want to leave immediately. The hospital was so dull and colorless—the opposite of how bright and vibrant his grandmother was. 

The door opened and then closed, indicating the nurse had left the room—perhaps to give some space to the pair. Instead, she had only left behind a tense silence in the room that was only broken by a small click from a bag opening. 

“Hey,” the cold, crisp voice of the woman said, “My mom’s in the hospital right now because she had a heart attack.” 

There was a pause, and then: “They said it’s best if she stayed somewhere where someone can look after her, so someone needs to look after the boy.” There was an agitated clicking of heels against the floor. 

“I can’t take him! My business is finally picking up again and I don’t have the time to look after him!”

Xukun’s eyes drifted away from his grandmother as he turned his head to look at the woman as the volume of her voice increased and her tone became angrier, “What do you mean you can’t either? He’s your son too! How about you take some responsibility? When was the last time you even visited us?”

Xukun stared at the perfectly manicured nails of the hand that gripped at the phone so tightly that her fingers turned white. He idly wondered when was the last time he saw her before today. 

“You useless good-for-nothing, you piece of garbage,” she hissed, “Why did I even marry you?”

The other person said something, and the woman quieted down as she listened. Finally, she pulled her phone away from her ear and rounded to Xukun. “How do you feel about going overseas?”

Xukun nodded—as if his input mattered. He felt numb, like he wasn’t even there at the moment—disconnected. It was as if an imposter took over his body and he was watching what was going on from afar. 

“Good,” For the first time since she came to the hospital, she smiled. She returned to her phone, “He said yes.”

Xukun hated how he felt a warm curl in his stomach as a part of him preened happily after hearing that praise, knowing full well that she didn’t mean much from it. He balled his free hand into a fist; nails digging into his palm and willed himself to not cry. He wasn’t allowed to. He refused to show his tears in front of her. 

Somehow, the pain from all the aches in his body couldn’t seem to compare to the pain he felt from his stinging palm. 

Xukun woke up one morning—after about a month of living with his host family in California—feeling like he twisted his ankle. It pulsated painfully, and each throb sent currents of white-hot pain up his spine. However, it was impossible that _he_ twisted it as he had spent the past nine hours asleep—that is unless he sleepwalked, and if he did, well, that would be a cause for greater concern. 

Xukun threw off his covers and looked at his ankle, and to his great relief, there was no sign of injuries on his skin. That relief quickly changed into concern as he realized that his soulmate somehow hurt themselves again during the nine hours he was asleep. Strangely, this was the first time Xukun woke up to a new ache that he didn’t account for before he went to bed, at least when he was still living in China. Then, perhaps, it meant his soulmate lived somewhere that was in a different time zone than in the States—maybe one that was morning when it was night for him? Xukun felt a sense of excitement at this new piece of information about his soulmate that could possibly bring him closer to them. 

The loud blaring of his alarm clock snapped Xukun out of his thoughts and he hurriedly scrambled out of bed when he saw the time. He couldn’t afford to spend any more time thinking over this matter while still sitting in bed unless he wanted to miss morning practice. Xukun grimaced as he set foot on the hardwood floor and limped to the bathroom. Even though he wasn’t actually injured, so moving the hurting ankle won’t cause him any physical harm, there was still a painful reminder that it was there—much like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, except more painful. 

Hopefully, with this new development, his soulmate would be confined in bedrest for a couple of days and avoid any more injuries. _Yea right._ Xukun was sure his soulmate had to be the clumsiest person alive with how much they constantly injured themselves. They’ll probably somehow get a new injury just from sitting still. 

Xukun stared into the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth and wondered what his first meeting with his soulmate would look like—something he had done quite often late at night when he lay awake in bed because he couldn’t sleep. Perhaps they would bump into each other at a coffee shop and accidentally make eye contact with each other. Maybe they’ll accidentally drop their coffee and he would bend down to help pick it up and their fingers would brush against each other, and there would be a wave of electricity between them and they would just _know_ they were meant for each other. They would both blush and draw their hands back from each other, murmuring hasty apologizes to each other. Then, they would exchange numbers and Xukun would bring them to see his grandmother. His grandmother would be elated to finally meet his soulmate, and the three of them would be happy together. 

Xukun spat out his mouthful of toothpaste and rinsed out his mouth. He pulled on a gray hoodie that was draped over a chair in his room, picked up his sports bag, and left the house with a strange giddiness. He arrived at the locker rooms and busied himself with changing while idly listening to the soft chatter of his teammates. Once he was done, he left the locker room and headed to the gym. 

As Xukun busied himself with the mindless task of running laps, he once again pondered about the new piece of information that he learned about his soulmate today—that they possibly live on the opposite side of the world from where he was right now. Of course, there was the possibility that Xukun was looking too much into this; his soulmate could have simply twisted their ankle during a late-night excursion—maybe they tripped in the dark while going down the stairs for a glass of water. However, that didn’t stop Xukun from desperately clinging onto this idea. He craved for something, _anything_ , that gave him clues on who his soulmate was. 

Xukun wondered what country his soulmate was from. Maybe China? China certainly fits the bill, and whenever he felt pain from his soulmate in China, it was always during a reasonable time. Xukun hoped that it was China, because at least he was familiar with it. Plus, there wouldn’t be the awkwardness for having a language barrier for him and his grandmother. Sure, there were billions of people living in China, but he was sure that if he searched hard enough, he would get to meet them someday. Maybe, if he was extremely lucky, his soulmate was someone he knew already. Maybe they also grew up in Zhejiang? Surely, the universe would grant him at least that much. 

At the thought of China and Zhejiang, Xukun felt a melancholic wave of homesickness was over him. His host family were nice enough to him; they tried to attend all his games to cheer for him and invited him along for all their family outings. However, Simi Valley, California just wasn’t Wenzhou, Zhejiang. He had tried to bring a piece of Zhejiang with him by joining the basketball team, but there still remained this constant buzzing itch under his skin, reminding him that he didn’t belong. He missed the humid summers he spent playing basketball and he especially missed his grandmother—his home. Home was a place that didn’t leave him, and he hoped that was true with his soulmate. 

One thing about Simi Valley that Xukun loved was how it seemed to breathe music: soft piano-like melodies slipped out from between the tiny cracks of the cafe windows, tumbled out from heavy bass of stereo speakers at music festivals, and spilled onto the hot pavement where rhythmic beats played on upturned plastic buckets. The city never sleeps; there was never a moment of silence: from the deep jazz that drifted out from late night bars to the light tune the lady next door hummed while she hung her laundry. 

For Xukun, it was exhilarating how music so unapologetically rippled out and let its sound be heard by everyone. He wanted to be heard too. He wanted to join in and unleash his own brand of music into the world, the same kind that he found on the streets of California that gave his body a rush and made his blood sing. Before he knew it, he had fallen in love with the idea of being on stage and having the spotlight on him while performing, listening to the unadulterated joy of the audience from _his_ music. 

So when he received a call from his mother—no, not his mother; that woman was never like a mother to him—who told him in her cold voice to come back to China, he packed his bag and walked onto the plane, carrying with him his dream of making music and standing on a stage. After a quick visit to see his grandmother at the nursing home—who still greeted him as warmly as she did before, as if he didn’t spend the past two years abroad—he hopped on another plane to head to Korea after signing up for a program because a brightly colored flyer said to him: _Super Idol: Become the next star!_

Whatever expectations Xukun had for the program was completely blown out of the water when not even an hour had passed since the group stepped foot in the new country, there was an announcement that five of them would be eliminated. It was a startling realization just how intense the program was, and how serious he had to be about his dream in order for it to become a reality. However, Xukun told himself that he was prepared for it, prepared to give it his all because the desire to become the brightest star burned _so_ intensely inside of him. 

How foolish and idealistic he was, Xukun realized when thoughts of giving up plagued him late at night, and when self-doubt weighed him down. He was constantly aware of how he wasn’t good enough—when his voice cracked during a performance, when he couldn’t execute a dance move as well as the other contestants, when the judges picked him apart and exposed all his flaws—and it left Xukun feeling frustrated and helpless. The cameras were the worst part of it all because they were there like silent judges, recording his every moments and broadcasting his lowest points to millions. 

“Team Red-X, you lack the fundamentals of being a team. The performance felt very sloppy and rushed, and all of you seemed to be doing your own things. Maybe it’s better for you guys to practice more before you even think of debuting.”

It’s okay, Xukun tried to assure himself, that doesn’t mean we’re eliminated yet. However, he knew his team’s track record in the previous couple of performances were also lacking and they were set to be eliminated. Still, Xukun tried to hold out hope. 

When the MC announced the name of the second team that would be part of the finale and it wasn’t _Red-X_ , Xukun felt the fire inside of him flicker and die out. He felt like the stage he was standing on was splitting apart—crumbling and collapsing—and he was drowning, unable to breathe and there was no surface for him to break through for air. 

The judges’ condolences sounded muffled as though Xukun’s ears were clogged with water. Xukun stared at the dazzling lights decorating the stage and wished with all his might that this was just a bad dream he had yet to wake up from. And of course it wasn’t, and soon he was forced off and back to the dorms to pack his things and leave. 

As Xukun wheeled his luggage out of the airport, loud cheers greeted him from the hordes of people waiting outside, holding banners with his name on them. 

“Welcome back Cai Xukun!”

“We will always support you!” 

“Fighting Cai Xukun!”

Letters were shoved into his hands and gifts piled onto his arms until he couldn’t carry anymore, his arms starting to go numb from how many things he was holding. Xukun felt overwhelmed from all the love and support that he was receiving, at the fact that people actually _liked_ him enough to be his fans, even after his numerous failures. He felt his throat closing up, saving him from the embarrassment of choking out garbled words and bursting out into tears. He nodded his thanks to everyone with slightly misty eyes, his heart feeling lighter than it had for months. 

Xukun decided to return to Super Idol for season two because _“Become the next star!”_ still rang true for him. It was the stage that kept him coming back time and time after; when all he wanted to do was quit, the stage was the only thing holding him back from doing so. He was drunk off that intoxicating feeling that came with performing—of being visible. Xukun hoped if he just tried a bit harder this time, the stage would finally be within his grasp. And, then he could become Polaris, the brightest star that would light up the path to his dream and guide him home. 

This time would definitely be different, because he was fueled by his fans and their endless support to him (the fact that he had fans is still baffling to him), and also desperation to not be forced to leave the stage again. 

At the finale, when the judge called his name to announce that he would be part of the debuting group, Xukun found himself shaking, thinking the exact same thing as one year ago as he stood on the exact same spot—that this was a dream he has yet to wake up from.

However, when he woke up the next morning on the hardwood floor of the dorms—because everyone had stayed up late celebrating and collectively decided that sleeping on the floors sounded better than in their much softer beds—he realized that is _wasn’t_ a dream; that he won, that all the hours that he put into practicing—polishing and refining—his skills were finally recognized. 

_And this is it_ , Xukun thought, as he signed his name on the contact with shaky hands, _this is the start of me._

The following months as part of SWIN were a blur as they were all busy in preparing for their debut showcase, shooting for music videos, and attending fan meets. They were making a splash in the public eye, and Xukun was riding on the high of their success. He was able to perform to his heart’s content and everything was going well. The only thing he was missing was his soulmate, but with how brightly he was shining now, he was sure he’ll find them soon. And when he found them, then everything would be _perfect._

Xukun learned that happiness—for him—was a short, fleeting thing, when everything came crashing down on him. 

The next couple of months were silent as false promises after false promises piled up on each other and SWIN had fewer and fewer public appearances. Suddenly, there was not enough money to go around, and their contracts had to be adjusted because of that. 

The stage looked further and further away, and the future of the group looked bleak. As time stretched on, more and more fans—that Xukun thought he could count on to stay—left because they couldn’t wait any longer. Xukun was hit with the cruel reality that even if he debuted, without the interest of the public, then it was the same as not debuting. They were nothing. _He_ was nothing. 

Xukun wondered if this was his punishment for getting too comfortable with how well his life was going, that he should have expected from the start that everything would end up like this because he didn’t deserve it. 

He was no star, certainly not one as bright as Polaris, but rather a meteoroid that revealed—once the short-lived brightness fizzled out—it was always just a plain, boring rock. 

Bad things always came in waves; and perhaps Xukun has been cursed by the universe because a couple of days later, he receive a call where the speaker on the other line told, ordered in her distant and icier voice to him visit his grandmother because the nursing home called her, and that she was too swamped with work overseas to come back. Xukun hurriedly booked a ticket to the next flight back home; because his grandmother was his home, and he couldn’t afford to lose her—not now, not ever. When Xukun arrived there, he saw his grandmother laying still on the bed, looking more dead than alive with tubes sticking out from every part of her body. Xukun stood still, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest, which was the only indication that she was still alive and he wondered what exactly he was _doing_ with his life in the past two years, chasing after an impossible dream.

He had thought that becoming an idol meant he would have a stage to spread _his_ music, but how could he do that now when there was no stage and no one around to listen to him? 

The following days, his chest began to ache, and he could acutely feel each thud of his heart, each thud spreading painful sensations to the rest of his body. It felt as if his heart was being squeezed inside of him or that it was being lowered slowly onto pieces of jagged glass but lifted up just before it was pierced all the way through and then rinse and repeat. It was torturing, and Xukun wanted nothing more than to claw his chest open and rip out his heart so the pain would just stop. There was also a sense of disconnect that came with the waves of dull pain, like it wasn’t his pain, and it wasn’t his body, so Xukun knew it was his soulmate hurting. 

However, Xukun had never felt this sensation before from his soulmate, so he wondered why, what exactly happened to make them feel like they wanted to break into pieces, crushed, and dissolved. At the same time, in some sick way, Xukun found comfort in the pain, because it was his one connection to his soulmate, and that even in his lowest moments, there was someone with him. Another painful palpation—and Xukun harshly scrubbed away the tears that formed in his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

He let out a bitter laugh—at himself. His soulmate didn’t deserve to have someone like him especially with how they seem to be dealing with the hurdles that life threw at them. For the first time, Xukun wished that he would never meet his soulmate because they didn’t need to see with their own eyes how much of a mess he really was. His heart clenched, and more tears formed, and Xukun wasn’t sure if that was from him or his soulmate. Xukun thought at that moment, it was best to let go of his childish dreams, of finding his soulmate because maybe that was best for both of them, and instead focus on his other dream of becoming a star, only this time solely for him and not to light up the path for his soulmate.

At the very least, Xukun vowed, he should be happy and take care of himself, so that he wouldn’t add onto the heavy burden his soulmate was carrying. 

Xukun saw how everyone in SWIN was hurting, swallowing down all their complaints and still holding out hope that things might get better. He saw how it was slowly poisoning all of them, forcing them to be content with what they have as time stretched on, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he felt like the inside of mouth was tarred black from all the unspoken words he was holding back from saying. 

He realized he wasn’t making true to his promise to become better and happier, so staying wasn’t an option because he wasn’t happy. Xukun decided once again to take his dream—his _sole_ dream, he reminded himself—in his own hands because he didn’t want to be the little boy that couldn’t say no when asked if he wanted to study abroad. So, he left.

**Author's Note:**

> (ﾉಥ益ಥ)ﾉ This came out a lot sadder than I originally anticipated, but I promise it will all get better in part 2! 
> 
> Title is from Zhengting's Empty Space
> 
> A big thank you to whoever prompted this! I hope I did this amazing prompt justice! Also, thank you Cloud9 mods for organizing this event (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡


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